The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"We have tried, friend Gallowglass!" The boy looked up at Rod in mute appeal. "We have tried; yet she would not hear us!"

Rod's face turned to wood. "How's that again?"

Toby spread his hands in helplessness. "The page we sent to her returned to tell us that we should be thankful for the protection she accorded us, and not be so ingracious and insolent as to seek to meddle in her governing."

Rod jerked his head in tight, quick nods, mouth drawn back in grim agreement. "Yeah, that sounds like Catharine."

"Mayhap," one of the boys murmured thoughtfully, "it is all to the best; for she hath cares enough without warnings of doom from us."

Rod grinned without humor. "Yeah. Between the noblemen and the beggars, she's got more than enough worries to keep her busy."

Toby nodded, eyes wide and serious. "Aye, she hath troubles sufficient, between the councillors, the House of Clovis, and the banshee on her roof. She hath great cause to be most afeard."

"Yes." Rod's voice was tight, rasping. "Yes, she hath good cause; and I think that she is thoroughly afeard."

Big Tom must have been a very light sleeper; he sat up on his pallet as Rod came tiptoeing up to his bunk.

"Art well, master?" he whispered in a rasping voice that had about as much secrecy as a bullfrog in rut.

Rod stopped and frowned down at his manservant. "Yes, very well. Why shouldn't I be?"

Big Tom smiled sheepishly. "Thou hast small use for sleep," he muttered. "I had thought it might be a fever."

"No." Rod smiled with relief, shaking his head. He pushed past Big Tom. "It's not a fever."

"What is it, then?"

Rod fell backward onto the bed, cupping his hands under his head. "Did you ever hear of a game called cricket, Tom?"

"Cricket?" Tom scowled." 'Tis a chirping creature on the hearth, master."

"Yeah, but it's also the name of a game. The center of the game is a wicket, see, and one team tries to knock down the wicket by throwing a ball at it. The other team tries to protect the wicket by knocking the ball away with a paddle."

"Strange," Big Tom murmured, eyes wide with wonder. "A most strange manner of game, master."

"Yes," Rod agreed, "but it gets worse. The teams trade sides, you see, and the team that was attacking the wicket before is defending it now." He looked down over his toes at Tom's round beehive face.

"Nay," the big man muttered, shaking his head in confusion. "What is the point to it all, master?"

Rod stretched, let his body snap back to relaxation.

"The point is that no matter who wins, it's going to be hard on the wicket."

"Aye!" Big Tom nodded vigorously. "Most certain true, master."

"Now, I get the feeling that there's a colossal game of cricket going on around here; only there's three teams in the game: the councillors, the beggars…"

"The House of Clovis," Tom muttered.

Rod's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Yes, the House of Clovis. And, of course, the Queen."

"Then, who," asked Big Tom, "is the wicket?"

"Me." Rod rolled over on his side, thumped the pillow with his fist, and lowered his head onto it with a blissful sigh. "And now I am going to sleep. Good night."

"Master Gallowglass," piped a page's voice.

Rod closed his eyes and prayed for strength. "Yes, page?"

"You are called to wait upon the Queen at her breakfast, Master Gallowglass."

Rod forced an eyelid open and peered out the window; the sky was rosy with dawn.

He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten, almost dozing off in the process. He drew in a sigh that would have filled a bottomless pit, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat up. "Well, no rest for the wicket. What'd I do with my damn uniform, Tom?"

Rod had to admit that Catharine Plantagenet had a good dramatic instinct and, moreover, knew how to use it on her court. The guards were at their stations in the dining hall before sunrise. The lords and ladies who were privileged— or, more accurately, cursed—to share the Queen's dawn breakfast arrived right after the cock's crow. Not till they were all assembled, and all waiting some time eyeing the breakfast meats, did Catharine make her entrance.

And she definitely made an entrance, even at that hour. The doors of the hall were thrown wide, revealing Catharine standing in a pool of torchlight. Six buglers blew a fanfare, at which all the lords and ladies rose and Rod winced (pitch was more or less a matter of taste in that culture).

Then Catharine stepped into the hall, head high and shoulders back. She paced a quarter way around the wall to the great gilded chair at the head of the table. The Duke of Loguire stepped forth and pulled the chair back. Catharine sat, with the grace and lightness of a feather. Loguire sat at her right hand, and the rest of the company followed suit. Catharine picked up her two-tined fork, and the company fell to, while liveried stewards invaded from the four corners of the hall with great platters of bacon and sausage, pickled herring, white rolls, and tureens of tea and soup.

Each platter was brought first to Brom O'Berin, where he sat at the Queen's left hand. Brom took a sample of each platter, ate a morsel of it, and placed the remainder on a plate before him. Then the huge platters were placed on the table. By this time Brom, finding himself still alive, passed the filled plate to Catharine.

The company fell to with gusto, and Rod's stomach reminded him that all that had hit his digestive tract that night had been spiced wine.

Catharine picked daintily at her food with the original bird-like appetite. Rumor had it that she ate just before the formal meal in the privacy of her apartments. Even so, she was so thin that Rod found it in himself to doubt the rumor.

The stewards wove in and out with flagons of wine and huge meat pies.

Rod was stationed at the east door; he thus had a good view of Catharine, where she sat at the north end of the table, Milord Loguire at her right hand, Durer, at Loguire's right hand, and the back of Brom O'Berin's head.

Durer leaned over and murmured something to his lord. Loguire waved a hand impatiently and nodded. He tore the meat off a chop with one bite, chewed, swallowed, and washed it down with a draft of wine. As he lowered the cup to the table, he turned to Catharine and rumbled, "Your Majesty, I am concerned."

Catharine gave him the cold eye. "We are all concerned, Milord Loguire. We must bear with our cares as well as we may."

Loguire's lips pressed tight together, his mouth almost becoming lost between moustache and beard. "My care," he said, "is for your own person, and for the welfare of your kingdom."

Catharine turned back to her plate, cutting a morsel of pork with great care. "I must hope that the welfare of my person would indeed affect the welfare of my kingdom."

Loguire's neck was growing red; but he pushed on obstinately. "I am glad that your Majesty sees that a threat to your welfare is a threat to this kingdom."

The skin furrowed between Catharine's eyebrows; she frowned at Loguire. "Indeed I do."

"Knowing that the Queen's life is threatened, the people grow uneasy."

Catharine put down her fork and sat back in her chair. Her voice was mild, even sweet. "Is my life, then, threatened, milord?"

"It would seem so," Loguire murmured carefully. "For the banshee was upon your roof again last night."

Rod's ears pricked up.

Catharine's lips turned in, pressed between her teeth; her eyes closed. Silence fell around the table. Brom O'Berin's voice rumbled into the sudden quiet. "The banshee hath often been seen upon her Majesty's battlements; yet still she lives."

"Be still!" Catharine snapped at him. Her shoulders straightened; she leaned forward to take up her goblet. "I do not wish to hear of the banshee." She drained the goblet, then held it out to the side. "Steward, more wine!"